Clinging to the cracks on the rocks untilthe wind became our cracks,we almost lostour lives in serving a gourmet illusion.

The other day, we looked up, hoping tocatch a glimpse of the moon for it has beencounted to the day she would be full.

We turned up and looked and looked. Couldn't findher; and devastated and bitter, weremembered that she fell as

we reached up for her into the sea. Andthat night, the sea glowed while we cringed further upinto our dreamland.

copyright Jacqueline Chia All Rights Reserved

The ferrymanThere is another dream my mind revisits. An evil, feverish dream... I am walking on the cobblestones beside the Mississippi River, and it is twilight time. As I pause to watch the water rushing by, I see something move in the darkness. It's an apparition of some sort, a man who is only half there. His face seems familiar. The ghost begins to move until it is out of view behind a floodwall. The dream asks me to follow this spirit, and I do. I climb the barriers beyond the area deemed safe. There are still cobblestones beneath my feet, but I am much closer to the river now. It mists my face like ocean waves, and it smells of catfish. The stones I am walking on are wet and greasy and this path is sloping ever downward. But I can still make out the spirit ahead. It keeps rounding brick walls, yet at all times the river follows at my right.The cobblestones slowly turn into stairsteps as the sky grows darker, and from somewhere I have produced a lighted torch. The ground levels out below, and there at the bottom stands the faded spirit, close to the crawling river's edge. As I reach flat ground I wave the torch and see myself surrounded by many shades, faded people who don't seem to notice me. Now the spirit I have followed puts on a pair of thick glasses, and I recognize him as my grandfather. I am mortified, yet I see that he cannot speak to me, and I am too unsure to say anything to him.A small light is now moving across the surface of the water, and as it draws near, I can see that it is a lamp hanging from the bough of a small boat. And standing in the boat is a tall cloaked figure clutching a long pike, which he sweeps like an oar. He approaches the bank, and my grandfather's spirit moves to enter the boat. I plead with this Charon-figure to allow me to ride. My grandfather gives the ferryman coins and they both wave me in.We glide across the surface of the river, which seems completely placid save for the occassional eel or tentacle that roils to the surface, and the sky has changed to a violent neon color. Everything is lit vibrant, but still there are shadows everywhere. I squint downriver at the opposite shore to see if I can spy our destination... I stare and then I know. There is a forest of spiky trees and atop them, men and women impaled, writhing in agony yet dim and hardly present at all. I have to squint to see, but I spy a large mountainous terrain with a large fortress built into it and in the center, a collosal door that has begun to open for us. The river rushes in to flow through it, and now I see that the river is pure blood. Our ferry's destination is the Underworld.I become frightened and I plead with my grandfather's silent spirit. I explain to the ferryman that my grandfather was a good man when he was alive and that I myself am still among the living. Neither of us belong in this place. Neither the ferryman nor the spirit move and we are about to pass through the doors of this hell. Seeing no other way out, I leap out of the boat into the warm river of blood and struggle to swim against the current. I exert all my strength to push against the rushing crimson waters. I swim past other sullen shades who moan and drown beneath the waves, but I have the advantage of being alive and my pace is stronger. I finally reach a tiny island of moss and dead trees. I climb up the brittle branches and survey my surroundings, but it is too dark too see my way out, and the river seems like an ocean with no banks. I do not even know the direction of the hellmouth I swam away from. I wrap myself around brittle limbs and try to sleep, but I know that there will be no dawn to wake me up...

~~ (c) Anthony Max images and text

Shamanic Art

Recently, I was visited by an old friend who, when looking at the parts for one of my current decorative arts projects (Calla Lily Pavilion Table), was quite taken aback at the degree of reality I had accomplished in my three dimensional rendering of a Calla Lilly in bronze and stainless steel. He looked at me with an air of reverence and curiosity and asked quite sincerely if this was Shamanic Art. And then he asked how I did that...

I have always conceived of the artist as an interpreter, and implicit in the higher works of sculpture, an aspiration to create art that has the ability to TRANSCEND the nature of the crude materials with which it is constructed and affect CONSCIOUSNESS in meaningful ways, initially for the artist himself and later for the viewer. The Shamanic Journey for the artist is highly personal and self indulgent in many ways, but if the quest gains the ELEMENTAL expansive archetypal consciousness of it’s highest manifestation, then the results and learning become apparent and contagious and the role of artist exhibits what Joseph Campbell has explained in "The Masks of God" (1959), "The shaman was to serve as interpreter and intermediary between man and the powers behind the veil of nature."

My training began in childhood. Both parents were artists and both interpreters to some degree. My father launched his career as a sculptor with ecclesiastical pieces and so, inherent in my training was a fair amount of instruction about research, INTENTION, RIGHT ACTION, and a curious type of ALTRUISTIC LOVE. No doubt my later academic studies in Parapsychology and Art have informed my work and provided me with the language to describe an otherwise osmotic event, namely the gradual but methodic TRANSFERENCE of “THE GIFT” from father to son. For in fact neither he nor I, at the time, conceived of my curiosity and attachment to the process as a preliminary to a career in the arts. But the lessons learned in those early years had as much to do with an ORIENTATION TO LIFE as they did specific techniques. And though we were both “tool users” by nature (square palm etc.) we both held a fascination for the ethereal and the DIVINE ASPECT of the “natural” world. So, after many years of travel, introspection, academic study in psychology, philosophy, and art, I came to the conclusion at age 24 (as my father had before me), that the act of creating sculpture put it all together for me, and became my raison d’etre. All my various skill sets, psychological orientation, attitude toward the world at large, and desire to express love, were simultaneously engaged and empowered, and precipitated an efficient trajectory toward soul growth. I must stress that at this nascent stage, my motivation was purely mercenary. I entered into the process for purely personal reasons, but of course the journey changes you, just as the quest for the Holy Grail inevitably changed those in long search of it.

The technical skills of metal sculpture take many years to master . It is a tenacious medium that requires strength of will, discipline and a focused and sustained degree of attention spanning many years. But as these arduous skills and mastery develop, the degree of difficulty diminishes and is gradually replaced by “secondary considerations”.

These secondary considerations are the aspects that coalesce in the Shamanic Aspects, and in my own particular case have formed the framework for a type of symbolic LYCANTHROPY. Thus, like the shaman who after many years acquires the ability to SHAPE SHIFT”, in essence, not to just APPEAR like the subject animal, but to actually BECOME the animal with all it’s inherent strengths and abilities but also it’s weaknesses and liabilities, I too have a similar process to distill the essence of whatever subject I am trying to portray in metal. I use the term “NESS” to illustrate this distillation. Thus as I am presently considering the Calla Lilly. I research, study, thoroughly investigate and otherwise sponge up calla lilliNESS. It is the complete union with the subject (plant or animal), that gives me the intuitive insight to infuse its character in the metal. There is so much hermetic alchemy, sympathetic magic, and otherwise hierophanical content in this process I hardly know where to begin to describe it. Better actually that I do not. There are strange attractors at work here that to retain their potency are better left undefined. Our conscious minds are sometimes an impediment to TRUE understanding, and the adoption of a posture of PASSIVE OBSERVATION can oftentimes in retrospect give us the wider view and insight to our own subjective processes.

My sculpting and technique in these instances is attenuated by a sincere and pervasive AFFECTION and LOVE of the subject. The love of which I speak is a VOLITIONAL ACT and consecrates the subjective commitment which in turn is REQUIRED to create the best work possible. Most people think love is uncontrollable, that it’s a force of nature like the wind or tide, but in fact we CHOOSE to love certain things, like objects. A man may say he loves his car for instance, and that love is a very different thing than the love he felt when first he met his wife…My father taught me this very practical trick with life drawing when I was very young. I was complaining that I didn’t like the body type of the model, that because of this I didn’t like to draw her. But if you can bring yourself to a place where you LOVE the subject of your art, even temporarily, be it model, flora or fauna, then you can find the beauty in it, and thus reveal it in your work. The focus on its intricacies reveals a phenomenal engineering structure and inevitably leads one to the conclusion that ALL living forms are DIVINE and by their very nature miraculous. Thus the shamanic journey for me celebrates the NUMINOUS. The in-studio act of creation on this level is an altered state, it strips away ego and like some symbolic calcination in a crucible, renders my being purified of dross and suitably prepared to act as conduit and hear once again the gentle whispering of the Muse.

Anne Shirley’s Lake of Shining Waters has nothing on the Adirondak’sPlacid, Blue Mountain or Racquette;Breezes send ripples of creamy satinShimmering and shining in the sun;An archipelago of water lilies dots the surfaceWhile the wake of a passing boat sets duck weed to dancing.When calm, the lakes become mirrorsConforming as images of their surroundings.To those who keep their distance, these images are pleasingFor they see only what they want to see;Surface appearances and no more.But for those who dare to come close enough,They may discover a world hidden from first view.In gazing beyond the looking glass to what can be found there,Crystal clarity allows for true seeing and the birth of intimacy.Astonishing beauty abounds;Much more so than the mere reflections of the surface.Submergence provides for possible unityIn two worlds becoming one;But only those who risk the dark depths of the unknownMay come to complete understanding--

Some will begin only to give upUpon encountering jagged rocks hidden below;Others will continue beyondUntil injury sends them paddling to the surface once more;Only for the daring few who descend to the depthsDo hidden treasures dwell in abundance,Awaiting discovery.

I build you now a woodland houseof birch bark walls and pine needle floor.A place to be with you eye to eye.We nestle in on the coldest night.Our hair entwines like roots.

copyright Kala Snowflower

"Return of the Sea" (c) Michael Dickel

Entanglement of Light(three variations after hearing Monk and reading Zajonc)

i light years of jazz

this light’s so strange,

shade of maples—outstretched,

tall, sentient stripes—connect

February to April.

promises

brokered over space through time,

across grass passages between

Genesis and Exodus.

Imagine entering the shaft,

slipping—

tangled identities write an instant,

a horizon and its spectator.

No brush with blues could capture

falling into the rich humus or

recall

before shadow.

Lost in perspective,

the escaping direction of

light and dreams coalesce,

having no weight,

ii quantum canvas

this light, so strange—

brokered over space through time,

tangled identities write an instant

before shadow.

Shade of burr oak—outstretched

across grass passages between

a horizon and its spectator.

Lost in perspective,

tall, sentient stripes connect

Genesis and Exodus.

No brushed yellow could capture

the escaping direction of

February to April.

Imagine entering the shaft,

falling into the rich humus, or

light and dreams coalesce,

promises

slipping—

recall

having no weight,

iii inscribing light

This shade, tall February promises brokered across creation. Imagineslipping, tangled; a horizon; no falling—recall before the lostlight; having light, too sentient over grass, entering identitiesbrushed into perspective—escaping dreams, nothing. Black walnutsstripe April space. Passages exit writing, spectacular indigo in theshadow-direction of weight. So outstretched, connecting through(between) the shaft, an instant capture richly coalesces strangetime, a moment's hue, or

(c) Michael Dickel---

Sungoddess in Perspective (c) Alkistis Wechsler

---

Return of the sea

In the dream a sea:storm waves consume the mid-western farm,depositing sand on the mud of the beaver pond.Waves suddenly wash around tenement apartments,threatening the mail room, the men’s room, storage rooms—a manager on the phone, disinterested and unbelievingwhen several tenants urge action, evacuation.

At first I body surf along huge rollers rightup onto the soft sand now thick across the fen,a creek lost in sand—oaks, poplars, tamarack shoved out of the way.Agassiz never thought this stormy sea—

then while running against the rise of waves, alongthe wet interior sand looking for shells, other washed up trash,I find remnants from the Renaissance—or perhaps Victorian— era:a commemorative of the death of a King(long live the Queen),gold coins,a wooden chest with scraps of recent poems.

Well,I dig for treasure as the water rises in its most powerful swell.Feverishly my hands stir sand,not wanting to lose this precious placewhere pirates have left their booty.I try to remove sand under the shadow of water.

Meanwhile,sea water seeps up through slum floors,rushes downstairs, crushing insubstantial wooden doors,shattering windows; itburns with electric rage up the walls untilthe manager hears the shock come for him through the phone.

Someone will call the police,who will come in full riot gear to shore upwater-logged cement under crumbling bricks;but the foundation collapses, pieces of brick grind into sand.

copyright Michael Dickel

spiritworlds therianthropics (c) 2007 All International Rights Reserved by Myztico

(c) Gabe Marquez

Bahama Waters

Schools of iridescent purple fish

slip through the seas

that slide down my face.

Surface tension

locks the liquid

It can’t flow

I swim the canyons where coral and sea shadows

beckon me

slippery and lost

to glide

like a great triggerfish

into the forever blue.

Until that crystal thread

that connects me to memory

hums a siren song

beckoning toward stickier solid matter.

I float in curious ponds

that fill and change.

In this thin liquid

I await the tide.

copyright Terra Wolfe

Visions 2006 copyright Beric Henderson

Ascension 2009 copyright Beric Henderson

GOLDEN TREASURE

After this I came upon a tiny tidepool in the sand, and there lying in the shallow water at the bottom of the tiny tidepool was a sea shell that the tide had left behind.So I picked up the sea shell and held it up to my ear to hear the ocean roll: But a voice spoke to me from inside the sea shell and said, "Follow the beach another mile until you come upon a nest of sea turtles, and there you will find what you are seeking."So I did as the voice said and followed the beach until I came across a nest of baby sea turtles. And there embedded in the sand beneath a palm tree was a Golden Treasure chest covered with sea weed and barnacles.And approaching the Golden Treasure for a closer look, I could see that it was fastened with rusty old chains and secured tightly with a strong lock: That no other man might come along and carry it off for his own.Then, as I stood wondering how I might break into the Golden Treasure, a rushing wind swept me off my feet. And shaking the sand from my eyes, I looked up and saw the angel walking on the waves with a golden key in his hand.So quickly rising to my feet, I went and took the golden key from the angel and inserted it into the lock: And immediately the treasure-trove sprung open, revealing a fortune in silver and gold, pearls, moonstones, opals, aquamarine and many other precious gemsAfter this we boarded a ship that had been prepared beforehand and sailed across the reef to the shores of an uncharted island, surrounded by ten thousand mermaids and waterbabies.And when we had set foot upon the windswept sands, the angel took me down into the tomb of the great sun king and showed me all the marvelous sights. And when we had passed through the burial chamber of the great sea queen and explored all its underwater gardens and secret passageways, we hoisted anchor and set a course for home.And sailing on our way back home, the angel brought me up on deck and explained how the stars make their circuits through the constellations of the zodiac, and the sun alike. And the way in which the whales migrate to warmer waters in the winter and colder waters in the summer, and their relationship to the stars and planets.But on the midnight watch we ran into a violent maelstrom and the ship was in peril. And menacing thunderheads loomed on the horizon.And it was given unto me a golden rod like a staff. And the angel summoned me and said, "Take your divining rod and quell the storm."So I took the golden rod in my hands and raised it up to the blackened sky: And lo, a magnificent thunderbolt shot down out of the clouds and struck the golden staff like a lightning rod, jolting it loose from my grip and sending it clattering to the deck.And the powerful force of the electrical current surging through my body knocked me to the deck, causing me to nearly lose consciousness.And when the angel had again set me upon my feet, he said unto me, "Now take your golden staff and cast it into the sea: For in the days of this prophesy, when you have waxed old and weakened with age, it shall become for you a pillar of strength and a sign of your unwavering faith, in that whosoever sees you walking upright will know that you are indeed a true servant of God."

I rode far upon a mare of the nightshe of high fame and noble descentsnorting displeasure at my feeble attemptto guide by the stars her unfettered flight.We ventured to caverns lit by bright vermin.We enjoyed the charm of enchanting seers.I held the heart of folk I held dear in a dreamcarried lightly in my pocket, far yet too near,for the fear came upon meagain and again that I might fail, might fall,might show a crack of desperationand who could love me now?Who could find me bare and broken,hear the words I could not speak,recite the words that I must hearto retrace, to find my place,on back of the sacred mare,back on my sacrificial journey?Love becomes too great a luxury.I must be free to name my price.I travel the vast reaches of space for you.I delve into my deepest pain to hold outpainted posies, dripping in consecrated wine.Where would I not rush in if I could blast the barriersto bring your treasure, wrapped in shining glory?Alas, Alack, these treasures I demand in your honorare not those of your own demand.Again I face you bent and bowed with empty hand.I can not face that anymore.We ride, I astride my plucky equine avatar.She is, as it has turned, my only friend.Our adventures become legion, become legend.I'll not be bringing home that story.

(c) March 2007 Laurie Corzett/libramoon

"Dreamtime 40,000 years"(c) 2008 All International Rights Reserved by Myztico